Recently, I came across a post titled ‘The Oversharing Pandemic’. It made me revisit a topic I’ve always come back to from time to time – why do I write? Or rather, why do I share (some of) what I write here, especially when my subject matter has always been so personal? 

While writing is a tool to process my emotions and crystalise my thoughts, sharing is a bid for connection I throw at the universe. Like a fishing line I cast into the vast, blue ocean, not knowing what it will catch, or even if. 

I absolutely adore connection. Moments of being seen, understood. I think it’s one of the most beautiful parts of being human. 

Sometimes, we feel like our struggles are uniquely ours, and the ache that comes with that sense of loneliness could be so palpable. But more often than not, someone has walked a similar path before. So, if my writing could make someone feel at least a little less alone, I would love that. 

It’s also a form of creative expression. An exercise in relentless curiosity. Coming up with questions that inspire reflection, rhythms and rhymes that evoke emotions, and channeling energy that welcomes, soothes, and reassures. 

But the post I read also came with a warning: vulnerability can become aesthetic. Performative. Especially in a world where algorithms reward vulnerability with virality, and relatability becomes commoditised. 

It argued that true intimacy usually requires a closed door. 

And I agree. So, how do I strike the balance? 

For one, there’s usually a time lag. I journal the raw, unfiltered emotions when they’re fresh, just for me. What I share publicly are the distilled reflections, often months or even years after the actual event. By then, the dust has settled. 

I also try not to incriminate. I keep certain details vague, use codenames where necessary, and leave out specifics that aren’t mine to tell. 

And perhaps most importantly, I don’t actively promote this blog, apart from putting the link in my Instagram bio. It’s like my own little secret corner of the internet, almost hidden in plain sight. 

So, if by some serendipity, someone stumbles upon it, reads a post, and reaches out because it resonated, I take it as a small gift from the universe. A little nod that the line I cast into the big, blue unknown found something after all.  

(It sounds a bit woo-woo, I know. But a girl can allow herself a little magic.) 

It’s always a lovely surprise when someone tells me they’ve read my blog and resonated with what I wrote. Especially when it’s someone unexpected – a dance acquaintance from Bangkok who had gone through her own bout of burnout, or a friend of a friend who shares my struggles with body dysmorphia and has since grown closer. 

Of course, I’m only human. There have been moments when I’ve felt the pull to perform. When I’ve craved a little external validation. But I do my best to be aware of my own patterns and, when I catch myself drifting in that direction, I try to reset. To return to the root of why I do this at all. 

Connection. Not applause. 

Maybe, in this space, true vulnerability isn’t about saying everything. Maybe it’s about saying just enough, and trusting that whoever is meant to hear it, will. 

So, if you read this and you’re still here… Hi, I’m Marsha. Make yourself at home. 🙂 

Written to Laufey’s ‘Bewitched’ in the background

Credits:

Images by Jonatan Pie and it’s_me_neosiam